


Milk Flu

by emetsketeers



Series: puke with a side of porn [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emetophilia, M/M, puke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5223656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emetsketeers/pseuds/emetsketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gallon challenge is nothing but foreplay if you’re emetos like Porthos and Aramis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk Flu

**Author's Note:**

> Here be sexy pukey times, not H/C pukey times. If you’re looking for miserable boys or boys playing nursemaid, never fear, I’ve got another few fics in the works. But this particular fic is all about the vom sex. Turn back if you’re not into it… or read on, and discover another weird turn-on to add to your list…  
> Warning for shit, I guess… I don’t know what’s going on because scat really isn’t my thing but I swear every time I’m writing Porthos I just feel like he needs to have it coming from both ends. Sorry, Porthos.

The milk is icy in Porthos’ hands, and he grins over at Aramis. They’re naked; the bed is covered with towels and there’s a bucket between them, and he’s half-hard already knowing that all this cold white fluid, in his gallon and in Aramis’, is going to be nothing more than two gallons of puke before the night is over.

They’ve been fucking each other to youtube videos of this for so long he can hardly believe they haven’t tried it themselves yet.

“Ready?” Aramis prompts. His grin is nothing short of devilish and his hair is pulled back in a messy knot of curls.

“Ready,” Porthos confirms.

They lift the containers to their mouths and begin to drink. The milk is thick and sweet, and when Aramis pulls away to laugh, there’s a milk moustache in his real moustache.

“What?”

“The videos always timelapse the first few minutes out, y’know? Right now we’re just… having a glass of milk.”

“We’re naked,” Porthos reminds him, “in case you were feeling bored.”

Aramis laughs again, and keeps drinking; but he’s right, the next few minutes are just an awful lot of gulping and giggling. Rather than stay facing one another Aramis crawls to Porthos’ side and drinks with his head on Porthos’ shoulder. The milk makes Porthos shiver when Aramis accidentally puts it down on his leg.

Porthos leans over and kisses him deeply. He tastes like milk. “Nauseous yet?”

“Full, yes. Nauseous, no. Kind of freezing, though. Hold me?” He crawls into Porthos’ lap, and Porthos lifts the gallon back up to his mouth and continues gulping it back. He’s not quite nauseous, either, although he can definitely feel the abundance of liquid in his stomach, and he’s really lost his taste for milk by now.

They’re maybe a third of the way in when Aramis stops, puts a hand to his belly. “Oh,” he groans, burying his face in Porthos’ neck. “Okay. Nauseous now. Shit, that hurts.”

Porthos kisses the top of his head. “Drink,” he orders, and Aramis lifts his head and obeys. Half a minute later though, he lowers the gallon again. He thinks a minute, raises it for another swig, then lowers it yet again.

Then he belches, loud and squelchy, and a little bit of milk splatters over Porthos chest. It’s hardly even vomit, but Porthos feels his cock grow instantly hard.

“Shit. My stomach really fucking hurts,” Aramis whimpers. “You’re not feeling this?”

“Not really,” Porthos replies; he definitely feels a little sick now, but nowhere near sick enough to puke. “You okay to keep going?”

Aramis nods, then raises his gallon and, with visible determination, gulps back a pull so long that when he finally finishes he’s gasping for air. He barely has time to prop the gallon against the headboard before doubling over, clutching at his stomach. He gets up on all fours, and Porthos barely gets the bucket beneath him in time before he vomits up a huge gush of curdled milk, which smells so sour that yes, Porthos is definitely nauseous now. He puts his own milk aside, kneels behind Aramis. He positions his hands against Aramis’ belly, rocking against him in time with the heaves, and just when he feels the surge swell again, he pushes, hard, and Aramis projectile vomits another massive load, missing the bucket almost entirely, dousing the towels with a spray of chunky, off-white puke.

Aramis burps, sits back. He’s shivering badly. Porthos pulls him into his arms, kisses his drippy mouth; Aramis swoons against him, rubbing his belly with trembling fingers. Just a little bit lower, his cock is flushed and hard.

Porthos wipes his hand over Aramis’ mouth, collecting a bit of sticky puke, and grips this hand over Aramis’ cock. Aramis squirms as he begins to pump. “I needa throw up again,” he whimpers, and Porthos sits him up, stays behind him with a hand on his cock as Aramis leans forward and begins to retch. Nothing’s coming up. “Gimme my fucking milk,” he says, and Porthos (with the hand that’s not pumping Aramis’ cock) reaches back and grabs it for him.

Just the sight of the gallon makes Aramis gag, but he gets down a few mouthfuls before rending forward and retching again, loudly. He sets the milk aside, shoves a finger down his throat, and vomits all over his hand with a gurgling cry. Porthos’ own nausea has receded a little and all he can think about now is their two erections, his own nearly as stiff as Aramis’ despite the lack of attention.

Aramis’ hand, skin cold beneath the hot puke, joins Porthos’ hand on his cock. “That felt so fucking good,” he moans. “That last one… Jesus, I needed that puke.”

“It looked good too,” Porthos remarks, and Aramis twists back around to kiss him. He tastes sour, of old milk and stomach acid. “You gonna come for me?”

“I wanna watch you puke.”

“’m not there yet, love,” Porthos admits. “You’ll get your chance. Come for me, now. Think about how sick you felt.”

“I wanna puke again. Just a little more.” Aramis retrieves his milk, gets a few good gulps down into his emptied-out stomach, then kisses Porthos; the taste of him is fresher now. Their hands still work together on his cock.

Porthos hears the rattle as Aramis sucks in air, forces it back up as a belch; he does this a few times, meanwhile, they’re working his pumping his cock up, faster and faster. With his other hand Aramis is pushing and shaking his belly. He forces up another burp… this one sounds thicker than the last… and with one last push against his belly Aramis throws up, aiming nowhere, splattering his puke all over the bed. At just the same moment Porthos feels the cock in his hand give one last pump, spasm, and release.

Aramis falls forward, panting. He spits, wipes his mouth on his hand, then whirls back around and collapses against Porthos. He’s shivering still.

“How was that, love?” Porthos prompts.

Aramis sighs luxuriously. “Your turn, is all he says.”

By now a third of a gallon of milk has been sitting in Porthos’ stomach for a good fifteen minutes or so, and drinking more is sort of the last thing he wants to do. Still he wants to puke too… loves that Aramis wants to watch him puke… so he dutifully picks up his gallon and starts chugging. The coldness of the milk in the gallon mixing with the building warmth of the milk in his belly feels like two colliding storm fronts, and before long he feels the pain, the sharp constant cramp that Aramis had mentioned, but he keeps drinking. Fuck, he wants to puke. He wants to explosively, eruptively, earth-shakingly _vomit_. He wants this entire fucking gallon inside of him so that he can scream from the pressure just as he lets it all come shooting back up…

“Love,” Aramis says, and Porthos lowers the gallon realizes three things: he’s hard as a rock, gasping for air, and he’s down to the last quarter of the milk, though he’s only been drinking again for a minute or two.

“Puke,” Aramis whines, poking Porthos’ belly impatiently; at even this slight pressure a massive cramp builds, and a bit of milk sneaks back up his throat and into his mouth. He swallows it back down. He’s beyond nauseous now… he’s actually in pain. And yet he wants the whole of it, the whole fucking gallon, wants the distending discomfort of the entire fucking thing inside of him before it looses it back onto the world…

“Jesus,” Aramis comments, as Porthos starts drinking again. “Oh, my…” And then he puts a hand to his mouth and throws up on himself, just a little, but enough to start a chain reaction in Porthos’ own belly. A huge surge of tepid vomit swells up his throat and he only just manages to press a hand to his mouth, swallow it forcely back, though he doesn’t think anything has ever made his stomach feel so awful in his entire life. Aramis is wiping the puke from his lips.

When it feels safe to open his mouth, Porthos does so, and drinks again. He’s just a few gulps away now, dizzy with nausea and the lack of oxygen, and he’s shivering from the cold even worse than Aramis now, but fuck he’s going to do it. He’s going to do it…

He does it. The last mouthful of milk fights against him as he forces it down his throat, but then he throws the empty gallon to the floor in victory.

Aramis is staring at him, first with nausea, then with reverence… then with unadulterated lust. He presses himself up against Porthos, chest-to-chest, cock-to-cock, smelling like vomit and milk and come and more vomit. “All right, love,” he croons. “All over me. Puke that fucking milk all over me.”

But Porthos shakes his head.

“How long before it counts?”

“Before what counts?”

“The gallon challenge. How long do you have to hold it in before it counts?”

“An hour,” Aramis replies, then scowls. “Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re not actually doing the challenge, are you? I want to watch you puke, love.” Porthos says nothing. “Oh my _God_ ,” Aramis groans, again. “You’re going to. You’re going to try to wait an hour. A fucking hour. A _not_ -fucking hour, as the case may be.”

Porthos puts a hand to the side of Aramis’ face, pulls him in, slops a great, messy kiss on his pukey lips. “Think,” he wheedles, “how fuckin’ sick I’m gonna be when I finally let myself go.” He can’t say the rest: that he’s never been able to resist a challenge in his entire goddamn life. It’s the best of both worlds. Now he just has to keep an entire gallon of milk inside his belly for… fifty-nine minutes.

Aramis harrumphs again, but softens up after another kiss. Porthos notes the time as the kiss evolves into a messy, giggly, make-out session; he loses himself to it, thinking it a pretty good way to make time pass, but when Aramis pauses, pulls back, and belches loudly, it suddenly hits him with renewed vigor just how nauseous he is. Like, really nauseous.

Like, never been more fucking nauseous.

He glances up at the clock. They’ve been groping like horny teenagers for twenty-five minutes, leaving him another thirty-five minutes until he can grab that wonderful bucket and puke his guts up into it. Oh, god, he needs to puke. Oh god, he’s not going to make it another thirty-five minutes.

He says this aloud.

Aramis, by now, is a pouty, slightly bored emeto, but he’s respectfully gentle as he pushes Porthos back to the bed. “I know something that might help the time pass,” he notes, and shimmies down the bed until he’s positioned just right over Porthos’ cock. His mouth is hot and wet as he takes him in, brings the flagging erection back to attention.

Porthos, unfortunately, can do little more than lie there; his belly feels more bloated than a balloon about to pop, and every time he makes a movement more dramatic than kissing, a geyser of vomit erupts at the back of his throat, causing him to gulp wildly, and cough against the burn of the liquid.

Aramis, however, does not ask much of him, contents himself with sucking languidly at Porthos’ cock, taking it nice and slow, while Porthos just lies there, caught in a blissful haze between his impending orgasm and the deliciously painful nausea-that’s-not-even-nausea anymore, because there’s got to be a word for this other thing, this thing that’s ten times more.

Aramis pulls away, runs a finger down the slickness of his shaft. “Are you gonna be able to come without puking? Because you’re still got ten minutes left.”

It’s a good question, and one that Porthos hasn’t thought of, but as much as he wants this he’s a man, not a god, and this is not a life-or-death matter, and he’s hovering on the edge of orgasm so he cries out, “fuck, Aramis, please!” and Aramis takes his cue.

With one final pull Porthos is coming, coming in Aramis’ mouth, and just as his seed spills down Aramis’ throat, a wave of milky puke crashes up his own, and he rips away from Aramis, folds over onto his side, legitimately afraid for a moment that the vomit would be enough for him to choke on. But in all of this he manages to keep his mouth shut.

Aramis fits up behind him. “Open your mouth,” he commands, but Porthos shakes his head no and, with herculean effort, swallows back all the puke. When he feels safe to do so, he opens his mouth and gasps for air.

Aramis actually looks a little concerned now. “Porthos… I think you should just throw up, love. It can’t be good to hold it in like that.”

“It’s tantric,” Porthos gasps out, and Aramis bursts out laughing.

“I don’t even know if that’s offensive or not,” he replies. “Just please don’t fucking burst your stomach or something.”

“I’m not gonna burst my stomach,” Porthos replies. “Just keep an eye on the clock for me.”

“You’ve got four minutes,” Aramis replies. He seems to give in, then, and puts his head on Porthos’ shoulder. “Tell me how you feel.”

“Feel sick,” Porthos grunts. “Feel… oh, Jesus, I’ve got a fucking ocean inside me. An angry fucking ocean. I swear when this finally comes out it’s gonna be like giving birth. Out my fucking mouth. The whole world is gonna come out from my mouth, Ar. Oh, fuck, I mean… this isn’t even nauseous. I’ve thrown up in my mouth like fifty times by now.”

Aramis nips at his ear. “How did it taste?”

“Sour,” Porthos gasps. “Chunky. Milk and bile. Oh, Christ…” he claps a hand to his mouth.

“You’ve got a minute left, Porthos,” Aramis says. Porthos nods. Tears are leaking down his cheeks now. His knees are shaking beneath him on the bed, and his whole body is heaving, not just his stomach but _everything_ , getting into the rhythm, rocking his forward with the primal cry of _why aren’t you letting yourself vomit, you idiot_ , and he feels the burning at the back of his nose and throat…

“Twenty seconds,” Aramis says, and Porthos wants to sob but can’t risk it, can barely risk breathing…

“Ten seconds,” Aramis says, and then he _can’t_ breathe, because his mouth is entirely full of puke and his stomach is just pumping up more and more, up his throat…

“Five… four…”

His nose is running, puke dripping laguidly out like precome…

“Three… two…”

“One.”

Porthos opens his mouth.

The torrent that cascades out is beyond comprehension, just a raging waterfall of milky puke, and for the first few seconds Porthos doesn’t even feel his muscles working; this is all just the pressure of too much liquid in too small a container, and it’s simple physics that sends the stream of what looks like rotten cottage cheese all over his lap, and the bed, and the bucket that Aramis has put somewhat uselessly before him. He gasps in a breath… then again, without so much as a gag, spouts up another tremendous stream, through his mouth and both nostrils, and from what he can see of Aramis out of the corner of his eye he doesn’t even look turned on, just really, really impressed.

That makes him feel pretty good, just as the cramps hit, and he’s thrown forward, gagging and heaving and retching up gush after gush of milky puke. And it feels wonderful, feels fucking exquisite, feels like the weight of a million worlds has been lifted off his belly, feels…

It’s then that he feels something new, that special stinging heat bearing down on a different orifice all together, and Porthos tumbles out of bed, and waddles to the bathroom as quickly as his clenches legs can carry him, hand to his mouth because he’s still got so much left to puke…

He collapses onto the toilet and lets go a flood of liquid shit and then, not a second later, spews up another geyser of curdled milk, which splashes all over his lap, and legs, and the floor, and a little part of the wall.

“Oh my god,” Aramis whimpers, standing at the door, and Porthos bursts out laughing. “This is fucking vile…”

Porthos laughs even harder as Aramis retches loudly, pinching his nose against the stench… it’s not enough, though, and a moment later he surges forward and rends over the bathtub and begins to dry-heave violently. Porthos watches with growing interest to see if he’s got anything left to bring up (Aramis loves puking, hates dry-heaving) but he’s suddenly distracted by another tsunami of diarrhea descending from his arse into the toilet, the cramps of which cause him another wave of nausea. He tries to hold it back until Aramis can watch, but he’s held back an awful lot already today and when the puke shoots up his throat he opens his mouth, doesn’t hold it back.

Aramis catches the tail end of it anyway. He unbends, wiping spit from his lips, then whines, “well, now I’m hard again. Come in the shower with me.”

“’m shittin’ an entire dairy farm over here,” Porthos grunts. “Explosive diarrhea takes priority over shower sex.”

“Boo,” Aramis sulks. “Too bad I’m not into scat.” He goes to the sink, gulps down a few glasses of water. Then, glancing up through fanning lashes, he eases himself onto Porthos lap, straddling his waist. “Got any puke left?”

“Oh yeah. Don’t you worry.”

Aramis grins at the answer. “Throw up on my face,” he pleads, pressing a narrow hand to Porthos’ horribly upset tummy.

Porthos grins back. He puts his hands on Aramis’ waist, securing him firmly, remembering what it was like when that whole curving plane was heaving spasmodically…

Aramis presses harder. Porthos leans forward, runs a tongue along Aramis’ chapped lips, begins to kiss when they part for him, and then Aramis thrusts his hand suddenly and Porthos’ stomach purges, gushing a load of curdled vomit all over Aramis’ lips and chin and chest.

Aramis grins. He leans forward again, presses his pukey mouth to Porthos’ pukey mouth; he presses a hand hard into his own stomach, tempting his own brewing nausea, and a moment later Porthos feels the warm splash of thin puke spreading over him. He opens his mouth, tastes the spillage from Aramis’ stomach. All the milk is gone; this is just tapwater mixed with the sharp bile of a sick stomach. He works it around on his tongue, letting it bring forth his own nausea once again, and after a moment of letting it shiver through his veins he heaves, hard, and vomits again, all over Aramis’ chest.

Aramis moans loudly, and in the scant space between their bodies he begins to pump his turgid cock. Porthos’ own is half at attention again but he just hasn’t got time to worry about that right now, between the next intestinal storm he feels brewing, and the rest of the milk that wants to fucking erupt from his stomach, and the extremely distracting sight of Aramis, soaked in Porthos’ puke and his own, jacking himself off happily in Porthos’ fucking lap.

He does not want to miss a second of this. Thinks he will probably come to nothing else but this fucking moment for the next six months.

He leans forward and kisses Aramis’ acid-flavored mouth, laughing into it when Aramis groans openly and pumps harder. With his free hand he pushes against Porthos’ belly, and hungry to feel the workings inside, and Porthos helpfully lets himself heave again, retching loudly against Aramis’ mouth.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Aramis sobs, panting now; his body begins to shudder, and just when Porthos thinks he’s going to come, instead he spews up a thin wave of vomit. It turns Porthos’ stomach delightfully, and he feels his own belly working up to the last surge, feels the rumble down south as well…

He grips Aramis’ body, crushes it against his own; his bowels empty tremendously and he vomits, hard, all over Aramis, and Aramis screams out as he comes in the crevice between their bodies…

Aramis collapses against him. Porthos only sits there, panting for air. He’s never felt so fucking emptied out, in the best possible way, and he realizes that despite ignoring his own erection he’s come again, he’s come without even touching himself.

He cradles Aramis to him. They’re sticky with sour-milk smelling puke and watery, acidy puke, and come, and he thinks that maybe if they were a little cleaner he could fall asleep like this. Aramis seems to think so too.

But they can’t. Emetophile he might be, but that’s just gross.

“Get in the shower,” Porthos orders, and Aramis grunts.

“Bath?”

“Okay, get in the bathtub.”

“Are you coming?”

“I sort of need to wipe my fucking arse first,” Porthos grumbles, and Aramis laughs sleepily, pulls himself out of Porthos’ arms and gets right into the tub. Despite his words he rinses under the shower spray a moment before lying down; Porthos, meanwhile, mops up his backend, washes his hands thoroughly, and climbs in after. He rinses off under the shower, still running, then pushes down the stopper and turns the water the faucet instead. Aramis sits up, waits for him to lie down, then lies down on top of him, head on his now-clean chest.

“We should’ve filmed that,” he mumbles, nuzzling against Porthos’ chest.

“That’s a very different section of youtube.”

“Not for us,” Aramis notes, and Porthos laughs. His stomach feels hollow, in a way that’s sharp but somehow comforting, and he thinks that when they rouse themselves from this much-deserved bathtub nap, he’ll feed Aramis some porridge, and get Aramis to feed him some applesauce.

“How do you feel?” Aramis whispers.

“Empty,” Porthos whispers back.

Aramis laughs quietly, rubs against his chest again. “In the good way, right? Not in, like, an existential way or something?”

“In the good way,” Porthos confirms. “You?”

“Empty in the good way,” Aramis agrees.


End file.
